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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25432075">Growth</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/SalmonCenter/pseuds/SalmonCenter'>SalmonCenter</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Ableism, Autism, Autism Spectrum, Big Brother Mycroft Holmes, Biting, Blood and Injury, Boarding School, Childhood, Cigarettes, Crying, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Gen, Holmes Brothers' Childhood, Meltdown, Music, Police Brutality, Pre-Series, Rehabilitation, Sensory Seeking Behavior, Smoking, Speech Disorders, Therapy, Underage Drug Use, Underage Smoking, self injurious behavior</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 06:33:38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,706</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25432075</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/SalmonCenter/pseuds/SalmonCenter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has Atypical Autism and Mycroft observes his growth.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>73</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Postnatal</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mycroft recognizes Sherlock in the maternity ward nursery just after his birth.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h3> Postnatal </h3><h6>November 3rd, 1981 - Mycroft is seven years old </h6><p>Mummy goes into labour while Mycroft is busy.  His tutor is attempting to teach him piano, an instrument that has long since lost his patience. It is one of the only subjects that Mycroft loathes.  Every other topic is easy for him to grasp - Mummy calls him clever-  but his fingers won’t cooperate on the keys.  Music theory is easy enough, but the application proves to be much harder.  He isn’t lazy by any means, but he much prefers learning quickly.  They have been working on the same song for days now, and Mycroft refuses to do so any more. </p><p>	His sits still on the bench, arms crossed petulantly.  Mycroft scowls as the tutor plays, wondering if the older man believes that more examples will somehow improve his fine motor skills. The repetition only serves to infuriate him, leaving him with no other choice but to press the underside of his shoes against the bottom panel of the piano to push himself away. They are too heavy on the bench.  Mycroft is stuck. </p><p>	Father comes to retrieve him just an hour later citing an easy delivery.  Mycroft silently thanks Mummy for her efficiency.  Father pulls Mycroft into the car but refuses to tell him anything about his new sibling during the long drive.<br/>
“You’ll meet him in just a moment, Mycroft.  Do be patient.” Father scolds, but Mycroft cannot be patient.  His little body thrums with energy at the thought of meeting the new baby.  He has already deduced that it is a boy by the way Father smiles, the way he leans forward in his seat.  Today is an exciting day. What time was he born?  How much does he weigh?  Does he cry much?  How often does he eat?  Mycroft stores the questions away in his head and promises himself that he will find all of the answers. </p><p>	The hospital is loud and bright, but Mycroft quickly tunes out the distractions.  He only dwells on it when they enter the maternity ward. It’s much quieter here, and the lights are dim.  The only sounds are those of crying mothers and wailing babies.  When Father picks him up to look through the glass pane, Mycroft frowns. The baby, on the far right, catches his eye immediately, even before Father has pointed him out. It isn’t that he looks ill or that he’s dressed differently.  His arms don’t pull up to his chest like the others.  His body looks smaller, somehow, in a way that Mycroft cannot comprehend.  His eyes stare down instead of up, and his back is arched in a silent scream. </p><p> A nurse picks the newborn up as Mycroft is put back down.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Newborn</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mycroft sneaks into the nursery at night.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h3> Newborn</h3>

<h6>November 16th, 1981 - Mycroft is seven years old</h6><p>William Sherlock Scott Holmes has been home for two weeks, and Mycroft has only officially seen him twice.  Once in the hospital and once when Mummy brought him into the manor.  Mycroft hadn’t been allowed in the nursery, and his tutors kept him busy.  Unbeknownst to anyone but the housekeepers, though, he had already begun setting his alarm clock early, climbing out of his day bed before the sun came up, and sneaking into his brother’s room.  </p><p>Mycroft has seen his brother eleven times.</p><p>The baby fascinated him.  Perhaps it was the child development books Mycroft had all but devoured before his arrival or the way that Sherlock seemed to contradict every single one.  Mycroft had heard Mummy gush over the new baby’s sleep schedule and about how he was already sleeping through the night, sleep training be damned.  Mycroft knew, however, that Sherlock was not sleeping through the night.  He was merely silent in the dark, only crying when the lights were turned on, and he was removed from the comfort of his crib.  Even now, the tiny baby made no noise, no movements, but his eyes remained open.</p><p>Mummy would never discuss how her son wasn’t gaining weight, but Mycroft again noted how small the boy seemed.  His arms looked soft and fragile, and his legs were skinny in a way that was not represented in <em>Newborn Development in Pictures, Vol. 3</em>. Father mentioned to no one how his newest heir’s eyes would slide away from his face and instead focus on darkness, how he was never sought out by the child he sired.  Mycroft wouldn’t tell anyone about the eerie silence that emanated from the nursery.  If he did, he knew he would be scolded, and that there would be a new lock on the nursery door in a matter of hours.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Infant</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mycroft visits Sherlock in his nursery.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h3>Infant</h3><h6>July 5th, 1982 - Mycroft is seven years old </h6><p>Mycroft has given up on the piano. After years of instruction, he has finally moved on to the violin. Unfortunately, he finds that his fingers present with the same problems.  They press too hard and play inaccurately.  He insists that he can read the notes, that he understands the theory behind the music, but his tutor still glares at him when he scratches his way through another song.  Even his parents have taken to residing in the north end of the manor while he practices and the front room is suspiciously empty of housekeepers when he plays.</p><p>Only Sherlock doesn’t mind.  He is often set in a bassinet in the front room with a swinging mobile that keeps him entertained.  Sherlock doesn’t flinch when Mycroft’s bow glides across the strings with too much pressure.  He doesn’t cry out when flats are played as sharps, or when Mycroft yells out in frustration.  No, Sherlock is a passive observer, taking in the movement of his mobile without complaint.</p><p>One day, after Mycroft has become thoroughly upset with himself, he stops playing to watch the quiet boy.  He is surprised to find that Sherlock’s eyes do not track the mobile as it spins above him, that he is not looking at the colourful fish that swim just inches from his face.  No, he is looking beyond it, past the movement, and through the ceiling.  Mycroft wonders, just for a moment, if Sherlock might be blind.  He immediately berates himself for the thought.  He has seen Sherlock’s eyes move, following bottles of milk.  Sherlock is not deaf either. Mycroft has seen him jerk at the sound of doors slamming.</p><p>Mummy calls him an easy baby.  Mycroft is perturbed.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Baby</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mycroft babysits Sherlock.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h3> Baby </h3>

<h6>December 2nd, 1982 - Mycroft is eight years old</h6><p>Mycroft sits in the nursery, marvelling over the idea of making two pounds in just one hour.  Nanny had suddenly become ill, and the rest of the housekeepers were far too busy decorating the manor to look after Baby Sherlock. Not that it was a particularly difficult job.  That was what amazed Mycroft so.  He didn’t even have to watch, he sat in the nursery and read, occasionally glancing at Sherlock to ensure that he was still, in fact, there.  </p><p>	Every time he looked, Sherlock was still in the same position with the same toys in front of him scattered about.  His playstyle was undoubtedly unique.  The thought was enough to pull Mycroft away from his book and toward’s Sherlock’s toys.  Sherlock, of course, didn’t so much as look up.  He was too focused on whatever he found so amusing about coloured blocks.  Mycroft stood above him for a few minutes, watching his brother’s grubby fingers pick up the blocks and place them in new spots on the rug.  There didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason for his play, and Mycroft just shrugged.  He was a baby, after all.  </p><p>	Sitting down next to him, he picked up one of the blocks.  It was remarkably clean.  He placed it next to a similar blue block and waited, wondering if Sherlock would even notice.  It took a moment, but he did.  At least, Mycroft thought he did.  Sherlock didn’t look up.  He didn’t even glance at the block for more than a second, but simply picked it up and placed it back in its original spot.  The blue block now proceeded two yellow blocks, which were followed by three red blocks, which -</p><p>	Mycroft was fascinated.  Sherlock had managed to create a crooked sort of work of art.  When viewed from just the right angle, which he would later realize was exactly Sherlock’s point of view, the mess of blocks became a jumbled rainbow of repeating one, two’s, and three’s.  Sherlock continued placing the blocks, one after another. When he inevitably ran out, he would pull blocks from the beginning of the line, creating an endless loop of coloured and numbered blocks.  </p><p>	Mycroft planned to retrieve more blocks to see what Sherlock might do with new colours or shapes, but he was interrupted by the door slamming open.  Sherlock jerked but didn’t look up, his little hands suddenly dropping a yellow block. Two one-pound notes were shoved into Mycroft’s hand, and Sherlock was pulled away from his game to be paraded around in a red-and-green onesie. </p><p>	Mycroft followed.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Toddler</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mycroft sits in on Sherlock's therapy session.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h3> Toddler </h3><h6>June 20th, 1983 - Mycroft is nine years old </h6><p>Mycroft spends his last summer with his tutors torturously learning the Cello.  His new boarding school will require him to learn an instrument and Mummy won’t let him attend without practice.  God forbid he make a single mistake around the other boys.  Today, however, he cannot practice.  Sherlock’s doctor is here, at least that’s his excuse.  The woman spends hours on Wednesdays trying to get Sherlock to speak, and Mycroft sits and watches them from a rocking chair in the nursery. He can tell she’s beyond frustrated.  His parents demand results, and Sherlock is unwilling to acknowledge the woman.  He has made no progress in six months, and she will be fired in less than a week.</p><p>She is working now, so Mycroft is very quiet.  She offers Sherlock one his blocks for just the Buh sound, but he will not be manipulated into speaking.  He is following the block now, which she believes is a good sign, but Mycroft knows better.  Sherlock is not tracking the block because he wants in.  No.  Mycroft is convinced that Sherlock has counted every block she presents him, perhaps finding intricate patterns in the randomness of her choices.  He can’t know for sure, but he occasionally eyes the bag of colourful blocks eagerly.  He doesn’t want to have a block.  He wants her to show him more.</p><p>“That’s the fifth one.  He likes that.”  Mycroft points out.  The doctor’s head whips around as if she hadn’t realized he was there.  “If you pick out another yellow one, then he’ll have a full set.”  She stares at him for a moment, gaze softening.  Mycroft still looks like a child to her.</p><p>“What do you mean, Mike?  The fifth block?”  Her voice is strained but sweet, and she suddenly looks like the patient Doctor he introduced himself to six months ago.  “How do you know he likes yellow?”</p><p>“I don’t,” Mycroft responds, amused at the idea.  If Sherlock has a favourite colour, he has hidden it from everyone around him. Sherlock doesn’t prefer things; he simply takes them in.  A passive observer.  “But he likes to count the blocks, and you’ve already picked out five blues and five yellows.  If you add another, he’ll have six.”  She looks down at the floor.  It’s true.  There are five blue blocks in front of her, and four yellow ones beside them. The fifth is in her hand.  Each one is a testament to her failure of this boy.  She nods slowly.  The brothers are an odd pair.  As frustrating as it is that William does not interact with the family, Mike doesn’t take it personally.  In fact, he seems oblivious to the fact that William has never so much as looked at him.  Instead, he has wormed his way into the silent boy’s world.</p><p>She puts down the yellow block and retrieves another.</p><p>“Six.”  She gestures to the new block before putting in down in the line.  “One, two, three, four, five.” Her fingers gently tap the blue blocks, then begin on the yellows.  “One, two, three, four, five, six.”</p><p>By the end of the day, Sherlock has six new words.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Nursery</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mycroft participates in Sherlock's therapy session.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h3> Nursery</h3>

<h6> December 21st, 1983 - Mycroft is ten years old</h6><p>Mycroft is home for the month and Mummy has made it her mission to spoil him rotten.  He had already been presented with a plethora of new books, expensive clothing, and candy that he greedily hides in his suitcase, away from Sherlock’s prying fingers.  Sherlock has been getting into everything, she warns him, and numbers have become his gospel.  He must touch everything, assign it a number, and then start over again in a new room.  Mycroft immediately notices that his own room has been riffled through and the sweets he had hidden away six months ago are gone. </p><p>	The doctor comes even today, so close to Christmas, and brings them both to the parlour.  Mycroft had been surprised at Sherlock’s vocabulary, despite it being only numbers.  The three-year-old didn’t seem to have a limit to how high he could count, only ever stopped by a lack of new objects in a particular room.  The novelty had clearly worn off to his parents, though.  Mycroft could hear a new form of desperation in the doctor’s voice when she began to explain to him an unconventional treatment. Music therapy, she says, will motivate Sherlock.  It will bring him out of his world and into ours. Mycroft is confused.  Sherlock is right in front of him.</p><p>She hands Mycroft a rattle and sits behind Sherlock, forcing a rattle into the younger boy’s hand.  He tries to let go, but she wraps his hand around his and forces him to hold on.  </p><p>	“Will you shake the rattle, Mike?  Show William how it’s down.”  Mycroft feels silly doing so, but he’s surprised to see Sherlock’s gaze focus suddenly on the origin of the noise.  The doctor shakes her hand, which in turn shake’s Sherlock’s.  He looks shocked as she begins to sing.  The entire session lasts twenty minutes with Mycroft and Sherlock alternating and the doctor singing. When she finally lets him go, he keeps the rattle in his hand.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Reception</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mycroft plays a song for Sherlock.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h3> Reception</h3><h6>July 14th, 1984 - Mycroft is ten </h6><p>When Mycroft returns home for the summer holiday, he is surprised by Sherlock’s vocabulary. The numbers are gone, replaced by functional words.  He doesn’t converse, not really.  No, he demands. His favourite phrase is “I want it,” which Mummy insists means that Sherlock has said please and thank you.  Mycroft must then give up whatever he has to his selfish little brother, who takes whatever it is and promptly destroys it. Sherlock rips books to shreds and stomps on plastic toys until they shatter.  Mycroft bans him from his bedroom, but Sherlock quickly figures out how to use doorknobs.  </p><p>He is furious when he finds Sherlock tearing his History book into strips and jerks him up by the arm, making him yelp. Before Mycroft can even speak, though, Sherlock shares a new word.  It’s still a demand, but it’s so different from what the creature has chosen to say to him for weeks that Mycroft can’t help but freeze. </p><p>	“Play!”  Sherlock’s voice is shrill.  He tugs Mycroft to the piano.  “Play!  Play! Play!”  His voice is nothing like the doctor’s melodic one.  Sherlock screams his demands. </p><p>	“I don’t know how to ‘play.’”  Mycroft retorts, shaking off Sherlock’s hand.  Sherlock does not relent, shrieking until Mycroft is forced to sit at the piano bench to quiet him.  And Sherlock does quiet.  He becomes still and patient, watching Mycroft’s fingers intently.  Suddenly, Mycroft feels self-conscious.  He remembers being scolded so often by tutors, being berated for playing too slowly and too badly.  “I really don’t, Sherlock.”  His voice is quiet.  Sherlock says nothing. He is once again a passive observer. </p><p>“Fine.”  Mycroft relents.  He begins playing the only song he remembers.  Twinkle Twinkle Little Star shouldn’t be this slow or choppy, but Sherlock has no criticisms.  </p><p>“Again.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Early Childhood</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mycroft attends Sherlock's fourth birthday party.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h3> Early Childhood </h3><h6> November 3rd, 1984 - Mycroft is eleven </h6>
<p>Mycroft feels odd being back home in November, but Mummy had insisted on having him at the manor for Sherlock’s fourth birthday if only to show him off to one more person. No one used words like recovery or remission, but the climate in the kitchen was certainly lighter now that Sherlock had stopped stealing words.  He speaks in full sentences, his points clear and precise. They are not topics appropriate for a young child, but Mycroft was the same way.</p>
<p>“Mummy put in eggs and flour baking powder and butter.  The flour creates gluten, and the eggs bind everything together.”  Sherlock explains to no one in particular.  Anyone who passed by would assume that he was speaking to Mycroft, but he knew better. Sherlock hasn’t looked up at him for over an hour.  He wonders if Sherlock even knows that they are related, and a pang of sadness hits his chest.  “Baking powder and baking soda make carbon dioxide.  That’s why it’s fluffy.” Mycroft nods through his third piece, noting that Sherlock hasn’t touched his first. </p>
<p>“Don’t you want to eat?  It’s your birthday cake, after all.”  He asks, ignoring the younger cousins that run around the table. Sherlock and Mycroft are the only ones still in the dining room.  </p>
<p>“No.  The frosting is too loud.”  Sherlock says absentmindedly.  “Powdered sugar isn’t as grainy as granulated sugar. It dissolves faster, too.  They have the same chemical formula, but one is finer.”  Mycroft frowns. </p>
<p>“What do you mean, the frosting is loud?  It doesn’t make noise, Sherlock.” Mycroft is confused. Sherlock doesn’t usually mix up words like the other children.  <br/>“It’s not loud in my ears.  It’s loud in my mouth.”  Sherlock says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and of course, Mycroft is stupid for not knowing.  “If Mummy had used aspartame, then it would have a different chemical formula, but it would taste the same.”</p>
<p>	Mycroft takes another bite.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Primary</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mycroft walks Sherlock to the lake.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h3> Primary</h3><h6>September 9th, 1987 - Mycroft is thirteen years old </h6>
<p>Mummy tugs on the hem on Mycroft’s dress trousers, fussing at the length.  He’s grown so much since they were first tailored.  At this rate, they won’t fit by the time school starts again, and Mummy is all about appearances.  Sherlock snickers at him and Mycroft glares right back.  Sherlock is already in Year 4 but has escaped the need for suits and ties.  He works well with his tutors and excels in music, something that Mycroft would never admit being jealous of.  Mycroft excels, instead, in people.  He is polite and persuasive where Sherlock is frustrating and manipulative.  </p>
<p>	“It’s fine.”  Mycroft groans when Mummy pulls out her measuring tape.  “No one else will be wearing a suit, Mummy.  I’d really like to fit in this year.”  Mummy shushes him and snips away at the thread.  “Do I really have to be here for this?”  </p>
<p>	“He doesn’t, Mummy. You took the measurements already.”  Sherlock interjects, fingers drumming against his thigh. He does so rhythmically and Mycroft immediately recognizes Debussy's "Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun.”  If Sherlock spoke in numbers as a toddler, he does so now in music.  His violin playing corresponds to his mood, and the piano has become well worn under his ministrations. Even Mycroft’s cello has found new life in Sherlock’s skilled hands.  “Mycroft promised to take me to the lake. It’s nearly dark already!” </p>
<p>	Mummy finally relents, letting Mycroft out of his trousers and handing him a pair of shorts.  </p>
<p>	Mycroft doesn’t bother following Sherlock to the edge of the water. Instead, he leans against a rock and thumbs through his Sociology textbook.  It will only take him an hour or so to read, and he knows that Sherlock will be preoccupied for the time being. Sherlock didn’t read in his free time, no.  He instead finds the oddest of activities-  like skipping stones-  and would do so for hours. His eyes track the ripples in the water until they reach the other end of the lake, and then he repeats the action until it is too dark to see anything properly. </p>
<p>At that point, Mycroft takes his hand and tries to coax him away from the water, leading him back home.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Middle Childhood</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mycroft interacts with Sherlock at boarding school.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h3> Middle Childhood</h3><h6>September 21st, 1989 - Mycroft is fifteen years old  </h6><p>Sherlock’s first day of boarding school is a disaster. Mycroft knows because it is the first day of his last year at boarding school, and because Sherlock is the one who wakes him up just before midnight with light knocking. Confused, Mycroft puts his slippers on and opens the door.  He isn’t expecting any visitors, especially not this late.  It isn’t a caretaker that greets him when he opens the door.  Instead, it’s little Sherlock wearing only his pants.  </p><p>	“What are you doing?  You’re meant to be sleeping, Sherlock.”  Mycroft hisses, arms crossed.  “Why aren’t you in your pyjamas?”  </p><p>	“Can I come in?”  Sherlock’s voice is loud.  He tries to peek past Mycroft and into his dorm room, but Mycroft blocks him.  </p><p>	“No, Sherlock,”  Mycroft says firmly.  He takes Sherlock’s hand and begins dragging him back to the younger boy’s floor.  “You can’t walk around at night.  /Why/ aren’t you wearing anything?”  He is terribly frustrated.  Aren’t the caretakers supposed to be watching him?  Without warning, Sherlock digs his feet into the carpet. He lets his legs collapse under himself and falls to the floor with a /thump!/ He makes no noise when his forehead collides with the ground and doesn’t put his hands down to brace himself. </p><p>	“Don’t be a brat!”  Mycroft tries to keep his voice low.  Sherlock has gone limp, but his eyes are still open, and Mycroft tries to pull him up.  A sharp, blinding pain suddenly radiates up his arm, and he knows that Sherlock has bitten him. Mycroft falls backwards and kicks his leg out, which collides with Sherlock’s chest.  The pain in his arm abides as the back of Sherlock’s head hits the floor.  <em>Damn it.</em></p><p>	“Get up.  We’re going to the infirmary.”  Mycroft jerk’s Sherlock up by the arm, and his brother finally follows.  </p><p>Mycroft has no sympathy for the younger boy’s silent tears.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Late Childhood</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mycroft works on his homework with Sherlock in the room.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I will gladly provide anyone with an accessible PDF of the article that is referenced in this chapter. There is no need to pay for this article.   If you are interested, email me at lenamendo8@gmail.com.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h3> Late Childhood</h3>

<h6>April 4th, 1991 - Mycroft is seventeen years old  </h6><p>	Mycroft truly hates Easter.  It isn’t that he dislikes sitting for an hour in church, or the candy he is presented with when he first wakes up in the morning.  The sudden influx of adults in the Manor doesn’t bother him at all.  No, it’s the screaming children that follow.  Cousins upon cousins, nieces and nephews, even great aunts bring their drooling babies to crawl around the nursery that once housed his much quieter brother.  To escape the chaos, Mycroft has retreated into his bedroom and put a chair against the door, only opening the door after Sherlock begged to be allowed somewhere quiet.  That was one thing they both enjoyed - Quiet.  </p><p>	Sherlock has lived up to his promise and silently thumbs through a book on palaeontology.  Mycroft can tell he’s not impressed by the subject because he’s not really reading it, instead just flipping the pages rhythmically.  He turns his attention back to the article he had been assigned to read and report on after the holiday ended.  The article is only sixteen years old, and Mycroft was immediately intrigued by the title: <em>Moral Judgment in Sociopathic and Normal Children.</em> He reads quickly, </p><p>“Sociopaths or psychopaths (the terms are used interchangeably here) have often been characterized as hedonistic, with strong self-indulgent drives (McCord &amp; McCord, 1964), as lacking an internalized sense of guilt and responsiveness to social criticism or evaluation, and as modifying their behavior only in response to brute force or credible threats of violence (Cleckley, 1959).”    </p><p>Mycroft frowns, then reads on.  “Their consequent behavior becomes progressively more age inappropriate, thereby increasing the likelihood that society will label them as deviant.”  He glances back at Sherlock.  Deviant.  It’s an interesting word.  Sherlock has already been suspended from School nine times, and it’s only through the Holmes’ families generous donations that he hasn’t been completely excluded. He’s a <em>habitual truant,</em>  they said.  <em>Antisocial.</em>  It’s not a far leap to deviance.<br/>
“Sherlock,”  Mycroft begins.  Sherlock doesn’t look up, but Mycroft knows that he is listening.   “Imagine this. A man's wife is dying of cancer and the only drug that may save her is priced beyond his means. Should he steal the drug?”  </p><p>“I don’t know anyone dying of cancer,”  Sherlock replies absentmindedly.  It looks like he’s trying to balance a page from the book straight up into the air, watching intently as it folds in on itself when he lets it go.  Mycroft frowns again, looking back down at his article for a moment. </p><p>“Mummy, then.  Mummy is dying of cancer and none of us can afford the drugs that will save her life.  Would you steal it?” Sherlock’s eyes travel upward for a moment as if he sees the scenario in front of him.  </p><p>“I wouldn’t visit her in the hospital.”  Sherlock sounds confident in his response. “It’s too loud and I don’t want to be ill.”  After a moment of silence, he adds. “Mummy doesn’t like it when I’m ill.”</p><p>	Mycroft’s pen scratches against paper several hours later, after the sky has already gone dark. </p><p>	<em>In conclusion, using Kohlberg’s Dilemmas as a method of determining moral age is flawed within itself. The answers any one child gives can be interpreted in various different ways.  What may be construed as a selfish response to one interviewer may actually be a selfless act that is being poorly explained by the child.  A quantitative approach would have been better suited to this study.</em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Borriello, J. F. (1975). <em>Moral Judgment in Sociopathic and Normal Children. American Journal of Psychotherapy</em>, 29(3), 2nd ser., 119-205. doi:10.1176/appi.psychotherapy.1975.29.3.436a</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Early Adolescence</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mycroft restrains Sherlock during a bout of self-injurious behaviour.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h3> Early Adolescence</h3><h6>March 27th, 1993 - Mycroft is nineteen years old  </h6><p>As Mycroft drags Sherlock, kicking and screaming, away from the kitchen, he reflects on how physical his relationship with the younger boy has become.  Where they once largely ignored each other, now Mycroft often finds himself all but tackling his brother down because Mummy is too short and Father just won’t bother.  The logic of Sherlock’s tantrums never followed.  </p><p>	Today, it was about lunch.  Mycroft was already eating when Sherlock barged in, demanding pasta.  Being the absolutely amazing older brother he is, Mycroft graciously left his own plate of food and began heating up the water.  </p><p>	“A watched pot never boils.”  He mused, and that was it.  Sherlock picked the pot up by the handle and lifted it up, skinny arms straining against the weight.  He then slammed it back down, the pot colliding with the cast-iron grates.  The fire on the stove sizzled and shot up when Sherlock continued, water flooding the counter around him.  </p><p>	“What the Hell do you think you’re doing?”  Mycroft shouted, jerking Sherlock away from the stove and wincing when the pot cracked the tile floor.  Sherlock quickly brought his hands up to the sides of his head and dug his fingernails in, but Mycroft was prepared for that.  He pulled Sherlock’s elbows down and to the front of his chest instead, both of them stumbling backwards.  </p><p>“I’m hungry!  I’m hungry!”  Sherlock screamed, his voice not so shrill anymore.  It had started to deepen over the summer, and he was growing like a weed.  Usually, maturity followed with physical development, but Sherlock had seemed to regress back to the terrible two’s.  Not that he had been a particularly difficult two-year-old. It was as if his emotions had developed suddenly.  </p><p>“You’re not staying in the kitchen.  Get out!”  Mycroft matched Sherlock’s volume and dragged him out of the kitchen, ignoring the way his legs flailed beneath them.  “The water was boiling, you idiot!  Now look at what you’ve done!”  </p><p>Sherlock only struggled harder, taking down chairs with his heels and thumping his fists against his already bruised breast bone.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Middle Adolescence</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mycroft finds Sherlock laying in bed, high.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h3> Middle Adolescence </h3>

<h6>August 3rd, 1995 - Mycroft is twenty-one years old </h6><p>It's no secret to anyone that Sherlock has been smoking.  He doesn't even try to hide it, either. Instead, he leaves packs out in the open, stubs cigarettes out on the walkway and tosses empty lighters into the garden. Mycroft is surprised, however, when he finds Sherlock staring up at a Ceiling fan with glassy eyes.  He’s breathing heavily and his skin looks clammy.  Mycroft can see the sweat dripping down his neck, but Sherlock makes no attempts to wipe it off. He’s high, and the observation hits Mycroft hard.</p><p>Why doesn’t he say anything?  Why doesn’t he confront Sherlock and demand an explanation?  Demand that he <em>stop it now</em> as he did for all of his brother’s other bad behaviour?  Why is this deviance so different from the last?  Why is he being such a coward?</p><p>Perhaps it’s the legality of it. Sherlock could very well be arrested for this.  Mycroft can’t imagine his little brother in a jail cell.  He wouldn’t survive in a concrete room with no one to save him from himself.</p><p>It could be that addiction is an incredibly adult issue to have to face, and Sherlock is still such a child. He still steals sweets from the kitchen and night and wets the bed regularly.  He still cries when Mummy leaves on weekend trips.  How did he manage to find Cocaine without collapsing under the pressure of a drug deal?</p><p>In the pit of his stomach, Mycroft knows why he says nothing.  To go to his parents would be to acknowledge the fast-approaching disaster, and ignorance is bliss.  Sherlock has never really recovered from whatever kept words out of his mouth as a toddler.  As smart as he is, he is still trapped behind a disorder that remains nameless and pulls him away from the rest of the world.  As he ages, the dysfunction has only become more apparent.  There is no way that Sherlock will be able to live alone, no way that he will ever marry or have a family.  To Mummy and Father, this is a failure of a child.</p><p>They find out, of course, and Sherlock is shipped away to a recovery program under cover of darkness, screaming for help as he goes.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Late Adolescence</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The following chapter contains an example of a diagnostic evaluation report.  This report is based loosely off of my own evaluation completed in 2014 by the University of California, Los Angeles (UCLA) Child and Adolescent Mood Disorders Program (CHAMP) in the United States, not in 1998 or in the United Kingdom. It is my understanding that the Axis method of diagnosis would not be used in the United Kingdom at this time.  It would have likely included other diagnostic criteria which I have chosen to exclude.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h3> Late Adolescence </h3>

<h6>June 8th, 1998 - Mycroft is twenty-four years old </h6><p>Mycroft is composing a letter when he hears the tell-tale whine of the fax machine.  He doesn’t look up.  The machine will be the death of him one day, as everyone on this side of the equator seems to think it’s more appropriate to send fax than to simply page him.  Diplomats send him newspaper clippings, colleagues forward receipts they need him to sign, and even Mummy manages a correspondence every week.  </p><p>	Since he has begun working, Mycroft finds that he has drifted further and further away from his family. Monthly visits have become Christmas holidays and phone calls are rare. He is vaguely aware of what they fill their time with.  Father has found a new teaching position, Mummy is editing the second edition of College Level Calculus and Trigonometry, and Sherlock is struggling his way through University.  Being a low-level government employee doesn’t leave him with much time to think about anything but his work. He is lucky that Anthea is so prompt, or his fax machine would jam.</p><p>The form is slid under his gaze silently and Mycroft blinks as his eyes refocus on the thick font.  Anthea doesn’t mince words when she speaks at all, and Mycroft knows that this must be important. He scans the paper in a matter of seconds. </p><p>
  <strong>Date of Service. . . Patient Name. . . Chief Complaint. . . Mental Status. . .<br/>
Final Diagnostic Impression:<br/>
Axis I: Atypical Autism<br/>
Axis II: Deferred<br/>
Axis III: None<br/>
Axis IV: Moderate to Severe Psychosocial Problems: Social, Emotional<br/>
Axis V: Global Assessment of Function: 50-55<br/>
Plan. . . </strong>
</p><p>	It shouldn’t surprise him. Autism is not an impossibility.  Sherlock certainly fits the profile; a male with a speech delay displaying antisocial behaviour.  Why does his brother’s first official diagnosis beyond a general speech disorder shock him?  Mycroft sits back and runs a hand through his hair. </p><p>	He wonders if Mummy has ever sought out a proper diagnosis, or if she really intended to live in denial.  A wave of guilt hits him. <em>You haven’t done any more than she has.</em></p><p>“You’re shaking, Mr. Holmes.”  Anthea’s voice cuts through the haze and Mycroft glances down at his legs.  He is, indeed, trembling.  </p><p>“Coffee, if you wouldn’t mind.”  Mycroft mumbles, and Anthea is gone.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Early Adulthood</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mycroft retrieves Sherlock from a holding cell.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h3> Early Adulthood</h3><h6>August 22nd, 2006 - Mycroft is thirty-one years old </h6><p>Mycroft is fuming.  A man of his power with an anger problem isn’t someone you want to be on the receiving end of, but the police officers have forced this situation.  They have reviewed the charges with him, though Mycroft has already seen the CCTV footage.  He almost laughs when they use words like aggressive, dangerous, and resisting arrest. It’s pathetic, really.</p><p>“What you are telling me,”  Mycroft begins, keeping his voice low.  “Is that your officers happened upon a disabled adult throwing a fit and felt threatened enough to use force?”  The lieutenant is ready to counter, but Mycroft isn’t having it.  “If a nine stone man with a speech delay is enough to threaten the New Scotland Yard, then I shudder to think how London will fare under your direction when a real threat arises.  Anthea?” She keeps her eyes glued to the blackberry, fingers moving quickly.  The lieutenant is called into an adjacent office moments later and Mycroft smiles. </p><p>Mycroft leaves the room and stalks past the younger men.  The officers all but tremble under his gaze.  They are no longer confident men arresting a man in crisis.  Now, they are frightened boys, only guilty because they have been caught. The door to Sherlock’s cell is opened for him and he is greeted by his worst nightmare.  </p><p>	Sherlock’s face is bloodied, the gauze that’s packed against his nose doing nothing to stem the flow of blood. His face has already begun to bruise fantastically, dark purple circles forming around his eyes.  Mycroft cringes at the sight of handcuffs pinching his wrist before he notices the way Sherlock’s eyes stare past him, unfocused. His chest contracts painfully with every inhale.  Ketamine.  Sherlock doesn’t do well on Ketamine.  It has a paradoxical effect on him, leaving him agitated rather than calm.  </p><p>	It’s an hour later when Sherlock starts to moan. Post anaesthesia psychosis hits him hard, but there’s only so much that can be done.  He isn’t in any pain, nose already set and numb, but he still cries out. There’s a nasal cannula providing him with supplemental oxygen.  It’s the only thing that seems to help.  Mycroft leaves the room.  There’s nothing else that can be done to calm him, and the presence of a figure in the room always seems to cause more agitation.  </p><p>	Mycroft spends the next few hours voiding Sherlock’s new arrest record.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Disrupted</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mycroft visits Sherlock in rehab.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h3> Disrupted </h3>

<h6>July 10th, 2007 - Mycroft is thirty-two years old </h6>
<p>It’s ten phone calls into his search when Mycroft really begins to appreciate the curse of a diagnosis.  Sherlock has come to him requesting help - an incredibly rare occasion that deserves all of Mycroft’s attention, and yet he is failing him.  Even the cheaper rehab programs refuse on the grounds that Sherlock’s Autism diagnosis is too foreign, that they don’t have the training, and that they have never accepted patients with developmental disabilities.  Drug use is high among the antisocial, Mycroft counters, but the argument is already lost. It wouldn’t do Sherlock any good to participate in a program that resent him, either. </p>
<p>Finally, Mycroft gives in.  He begins calling individual psychologists and taking down names.  It’s like searching for an elusive flower, or an insect hiding in the rainforest.  The first doctor refers him to a researcher, who points him to the head psychiatrist at an institution, and so on, and so on. By the end of the day, Mycroft has a Psychiatrist and a unit in the closest rehabilitation centre.  He interviews six nurses the next morning and settles on two young men who seem capable of restraining his little brother, as well as keeping him busy. A program is devised on the third day, and Sherlock is transferred from Bart’s to Mycroft’s little patchwork hospital.  </p>
<p>Mycroft watches Sherlock sink his hands into wet clay, muscles flexing as he rhythmically squeezes the substance.  As much as Mycroft knows about Autism, he has never considered Sherlock to be a sensory seeker. The idea that Sherlock might enjoy something that seems to be so childish makes his heart ache.  However, now his brother’s gravitation towards chaos makes more sense.  When the psychiatrist offers him a piano keyboard, Sherlock plays for hours.  </p>
<p>“He can’t keep this up after he’s discharged,”  Mycroft frowns.  “It’s not socially acceptable.” Every book Mycroft has read, every article he has annotated, it all points to training.  To assimilation.  Being an outcast won’t make Sherlock happy, and they shouldn’t let him fall further into himself.</p>
<p>“Times have changed,” The doctor laughs.  “The word is <em> acceptance. </em>”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Middle Adulthood</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mycroft confronts Sherlock about his future living arrangements.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h3> Middle Adulthood</h3><h6> February 17th, 2007 - Mycroft is thirty-five years old </h6><p>“I will pay.”  It’s an offer that Sherlock should take.  Central London is incredibly expensive, and Mycroft is offering him an enormous gift.  Sherlock isn’t one to accept gifts, or even acknowledge that they’ve been presented. It’s clear that he doesn’t see this as an opportunity.  His hands are clenched by his side, fingernails digging into his palms. </p><p>“I don’t want you to pay.  I have a job.” Sherlock shoots back, glaring daggers.  Ah, right.  His hobby.  Mycroft has seen Sherlock’s bank statements, but he still laughs. </p><p>“You can’t afford central London as a freelance detective.”  It’s easier to make this about the money, really. </p><p>“Consulting detective, Mycroft.  I make enough.  I’ve found a landlord who’ll give me a discount.” Sherlock stays on topic, as always.  He doesn’t read into Mycroft’s responses, even when Mycroft wishes so badly that he would.</p><p>“Sherlock-” Mycroft lowers his voice, tries to keep it kind and gentle.  Are they really going to discuss this so frankly?  Sherlock interrupts him suddenly. </p><p>“I’ll find a flatmate.”</p><p>“Who would want you as a flatmate?” Mycroft scoffs.</p><p>Sherlock takes no offence to his words.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. New Life</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mycroft reflects on Sherlock's milestones.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h3> New Life </h3><h6> Novemver 2rd, 2007 - Mycroft is thirty-seven years old </h6>
<p>There are many things that Mycroft has come to expect from Sherlock, but living independently was never one of them. And he <em>is</em> living independently. Sherlock manages to eat regularly, keep the flat relatively clean, and pay his bills on time.  The people around him seem to be keeping him afloat, but Sherlock is most certainly treading water. Mycroft is more than surprised when he receives his first handwritten letter from his brother, addressed and all.  Father smiles when his son takes him to the ballet one night.  Mummy cries when Sherlock takes the train to visit them on Christmas. </p>
<p>There are many things that Mycroft has come to expect from Sherlock, but a career was never one of them. And Sherlock has a <em> brilliant </em> career.  Hell, he’s practically famous.  Mycroft pins up his photo after cutting it out of the newspaper, and he silently watches the numbers in Sherlock’s bank account rise.  His brother doesn’t care about that, of course. Sherlock is just pleased to have found a purpose, a way to connect with others.  It isn’t half boring, either. </p>
<p>There are many things that Mycroft has come to expect from Sherlock, but making friends was never one of them. And Sherlock <em> has </em>  Molly is Sherlock’s very first friend, and they get along despite Sherlock’s ambivalence towards the fairer sex.  Molly is a gateway drug.  Suddenly, Sherlock knows Detective Lestrade, and then Mike, and then Mrs Hudson, and finally, John Watson.  Mycroft blinks and Sherlock has a close-knit social circle, something that is certainly atypical for someone like him. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>There are many things that Mycroft has come to expect from Sherlock, but growth was never one of them. Mycroft expects silence from Sherlock.  He expects a lack of progression, stunted emotional maturity, and social isolation.  These are the things that Mycroft has been presented with throughout Sherlock’s entire life. He vaguely remembers tip-toeing into the nursery early in the morning just to watch the peculiar baby that stayed a baby for so long. Suddenly, it seems, Sherlock has grown.</p>
  </div></div>
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